by Lavie Tidhar
A fortnight ago, Gideon dreamt of the final Uhuru. In his dream, he had cast down these forests and in their place raised up a towering city of cathedrals and spires. The dried Lake Kivu refilled again with crystal–sweet waters. A bugle call had blown, shattering mountains. A winged doom had flown to his enemies. Before his very eyes, the towers of the Beijing Metropole crumbled to dust and salt; squadrons of PLA soldiers smote by lightning and swallowed up by the earth. The remaining kindoro knelt at his feet. They begged forgiveness, renouncing their pagan gods as the Israelites afore Moses on the mount. He had then turned his mind unto the new country. His new kingdom had stretched far and wide. He had built his church on the peak of the Kilimanjaro and there on the peak of the Oibor he had sat on a throne of white gypsum and bronze. Beside him, there had been a woman with golden braids in her hair, sitting as stiff and regal as an Abyssinian queen. As he recalled it now in his waking mind, he thought he saw Dora’s face there. Was it? Had he been having premonitions again? Or had it been the face of some other woman, as yet unknown to him? He pinched his forehead, the clarity of the vision dangling just out of reach, tormenting and maddening. He shook his head clear and made his decision.
“I am going to heal this man,” he said. “I will heal him and he will return to his town. They have heard about what happened at Ituri. Now they will hear of miracles, too. The ministry will grow. How else the Word?”
“How else the Word,” Musa Kun echoed.
“Leave me with him,” Gideon said. “And send for my cameraman.”
§
Musa Kun stepped outside the mahema into the iron–forge of early afternoon. There had been a time when even he had doubted the Redeemer. But that was before he had seen Gideon walking straight through PLA divisions, making their guns fall silent with a wave of his hand, turning their hot bullets into harmless puffs of vapour and steam.
There were two sentries standing outside the tent. He sent one of them to find the cameraman and then approached the thatched lean–to that Dora was sitting under. Alongside her was a small group of shackled workers, new captives from the forest. She stood up expectantly as he approached.
Musa Kun eyed the good boots he had noticed earlier, military grade Kevlar with steel toes. He smiled and stretched out his hand. She shook it. Her palms were soft, pampered. He noticed a pale outline on her wrist, some watch or navigation device that she had taken off or lost before arriving. The girl was a spy. He was almost certain of it.
“You avoided every man we have on the Kivu road,” Musa Kun said, “and from what I hear, you came straight to a hidden gate on the wall. I’m going to have a few questions for you. I’ll want to know who has been giving you information.”
“And who are you?” she asked, without pause.
“I’ll be asking the questions here. This is my camp.”
Her eyes flicked over to the entrance of the large white mahema.
“Don’t confuse yourself,” Musa Kun said wearily. “He is the boss, but I run this camp. And when he’s lost interest in you and your father, I’m still going to have questions for you.”
“We can talk now, if you want,” she said, and shrugged.
A sudden urge to seize her by the braids gripped Musa Kun, to teach her a lesson in respect. Instead, he smiled at her stiffly. “I expect you didn’t bring any supplies with you?” he asked.
“I didn’t know how long this was going to take.”
“It will take as long as it takes.”
“I have money,” she added.
“Money? Marvellous.” He pointed away from the clearing to the nearby tree line. “If you head around there you will find we have quite a number of shops. You can take your pick. Anything you need.”
Dora glared at him. Musa Kun didn’t give her a chance to reply. He waved the remaining sentry over, “When he’s finished with the old man, set them up in a tent on the workers’ row. Mark them down for worker rations only. Unless our princess volunteers to put in some work for a little bit more.”
The sentry leered at her. Dora pulled her kanga about her more tightly. One of the shackled slave women started wailing, soon followed by another, their words in an obscure forest language soon to be lost.
The cameraman arrived at that moment, a tripod slung over his shoulder. Musa Kun gestured at the mahema. “Go in,” he said. “Boss wants you.” The cameraman went inside. Musa Kun turned his attention back to the girl. Dora was still standing with her kanga drawn about her upper body like a cloak, her glance, suspicious now, flittering between Musa Kun and the sentry.
“We will have a reward for you,” she said.
Musa Kun waved at her dismissively. “We have enough money to buy that hole of a town of yours ten times over. The Lord’s work won’t need recompense from the likes of you. When you return to your town, you will tell them that freely ye received from God the Son.”
“Our reward for the Redeemer is more than money,” she said.
He eyed her again and frowned. Some elaborate trick she wanted to set in motion perhaps. There was no sense alerting her to his suspicions now though. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He turned away from her and faced the sentry standing outside the mahema. “And you. Either find a way to shut those workers up or move them somewhere else.” He began to walk away.
“Wait,” Dora said. “I want to speak to you.”
“Later,” Musa Kun said, not slowing down.
“We need to talk now. I want to make a deal.”
“We have no need of deals, princess.”
“My father has information from Bujumbura.”
Musa Kun paused. He did not turn, but a twirl of his hand invited her to go on.
“A kindoro is being held hostage there,” she continued. “The PLA are offering a reward for him. My father knows where he is.
Musa took his time turning round. When he did he was smiling. “I think that you are right,” he said. “I think we do need to talk now.”
“Our price is the Redeemer’s cure and safe passage,” she said. “Then my father will tell you everything he knows.”
§
“What is wrong with this man?” the cameraman asked, standing uncertainly in the fore of the mahema.
“Stop being such a coward,” Gideon said. He gestured at the camera impatiently. The cameraman stepped forwards and quickly set up his tripod.
“Mark this then,” Gideon said, looking into the camera. “This man you see lying here has been stricken with the bacteria. There is no earthly medicine that can help him. But for those who revere my name, I will take from thee all sickness.”
Gideon knelt down beside Michael. He placed his hand on the dying man’s forehead and he began to pray. It was not long before the Holy Spirit overwhelmed him. Tears came unbidden as he prayed and he no longer seemed conscious of the cameraman standing over him. Overtaken by The Tongue, he began to babble. He rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his face at the glory. The mahema seemed to dim about him. A quickening of light shone from afar, some distant lantern. The numinous washed over him, stopping his heart momentarily, covering his body in goose–pimples. He swooned, shivered, and lost his Earthly consciousness, collapsing on top of Michael, convulsing, his spirit spent.
Two years ago, not long after the end of The Emergency, the Legion had been on the move, running short of supplies and morale. The Holy Ghost whispered to Gideon then, as it had done since. It whispered to him of a well–stocked PLA airship anchored in Arusha. It told him how to shoot it down without damaging its cargo bay. At great risk, he moved a large contingent of knights to Arusha and found the airship exactly where the Holy Spirit said. A bolt to the tail and rail cannon shot to the hull had sunk it to the ground, shedding its bounty upon them like manna. Amongst the food and munitions, he had found many strange medicines, all of which he had personally commandeered.
After the cameraman had left, Gideon went to his personal store and removed a large plastic packet. He tore it open and rem
oved a syringe filled with a thin black serum. There was a guidance leaflet wrapped round it. He unfolded the paper. On the one side was a single Mandarin character, on the other, much tiny writing. He read the paper slowly and carefully for a long time. Learning to read the language of the kindoro was the hardest thing that he had ever done in his life, but also perhaps one of the most fruitful.
The microzymic therapy was experimental. The paper said that it was to be used with extreme caution, as a last resort and only on low profile subjects. All results were to be reported through Medical Counsel Gateway Node 78. Gideon knelt down. Following the practical instructions carefully, he injected Michael in the neck with the syringe. After a few moments, the man shuddered, as if in the grip of some nightmare. Whatever infection he had would very likely be cleared out in the next few weeks. But the therapy was liable to be much worse than the disease. Man had squandered the Lord’s gift of antibiotics and now resorted to these worthless poisons. The microzymic therapy was their latest creation. If the kindoro paper Gideon had read were accurate, then it was an attempt that was already doomed to failure. The cellular hyper–reaction that killed the infection would also tear down the essential fabric of all internal organs in a few years. But in those years, Michael Neza would have plenty of time to return to his home and spread the good news. The Ministry would grow. Gideon called out to his sentry and had Michael removed.
§
Six nights later, Gideon found himself in a dream he had never had before. He dreamt that the sea was on fire. Jet–black pterodactyls circled overhead, their reptile eyes fixed upon him murderously. He stood barefoot in green robes, cinder–black sand beneath his feet. There was a noxious hot breeze, and in the sky, the low pulsing embers of a dying sun. A black leviathan breached the burning water and roared.
He woke with a start. It was nearly dawn. A black PLA banshee streaked across the sky, then a moment later a sonic boom erupted. The zumbi sleeping beside him woke and began to make a desperate low keening.
“Be quiet,” Gideon muttered, wiping the night’s detritus from his face. He had slept badly. He did not like it here. There were no trees, no canopy, only the holes of the uprooted, as if a mob of giants had picnicked here and plucked them out by the trunks to use as toothpicks. They were in the abandoned rare earth fields that had encroached their way up to the very borders of Bujumbura. Huge mounds of red earth littered the Mars–like landscape about them. The old style mines were large craters in the ground, the largest of them stretching miles wide and miles deep. Slaves had dug these with bare hands and baskets. The by–products of their work were these new red mountains, the bowels of the Earth laid bare. The newer mines were deep, straight shafts, machine–bored. The work of mining had cultured a certain strain of sadism in the hearts of men. As part of some intricate game, the miners had covered many of these deep holes with well–disguised sheeting. It would be easy to miss one and fall in. To be on the safe side Gideon had made the zumbi walk ahead and he followed behind in the creature’s footsteps. Thankfully, the rare earth fields were beginning to thin out. He could already make out Bujumbura, its revolving rampart machines wheeling slowly on the horizon.
§
It was six nights ago that Musa Kun had burst into Gideon’s mahema with the news.
“For this, it might be worth taking the city,” Musa Kun said. “I’ve spoken to our man there. He says an entire PLA division was wandering the streets a couple of weeks ago, checking door to door. They’re handing out pictures of the missing kindoro, offering ten thousand yuan for information on his whereabouts.”
“And our man didn’t think to inform us?” Gideon asked.
“Who? Yusufa? No. Reliable man, but not smart enough to realise the importance of what he was seeing. Not smart enough to know that the kindoro have never offered a ransom for defectors.”
“Not even when that major defected to the Indians last year,” Gideon mused.
“Yes,” Musa Kun said wistfully. “Not even then. This fish is one that they want very badly. If we have to take the whole city to find him, it will be worth it. It must be. They will pay good money to get him back. Supplies. Weapons…” Musa Kun was excited. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, something uncharacteristically reckless about his manner.
“We could take the city, but you know we could never hold it,” Gideon said.
“Yes, but we would only need it for a couple of days. Blow the airfield. Set up anti–air rail and make it impossible for anything to land. By the time a ground force comes in from Kinshasa we’ll have had enough time to flush out this fish.” Musa Kun paused, grinned hopefully. “And after what you did at Ituri, who knows what might be possible. Maybe they come. Maybe we give them a good beating.”
Gideon shook his head. It was not yet time to take a city. He knew this instinctively. The PLA would strike back quickly. And there, in that tidal crush of bodies, he would die.
“Taking the city is not the way,” he said. “I will go in alone.” That felt right, even as he said it. “But first we need to find out where the kindoro is. Is there a chance the girl actually knows?”
“I believe that she does,” Musa Kun said. “But she wants to wait for her father to recover. Insurance. I can’t see how we get the information out of her. Unless…” He left the question unasked.
“Her father will recover,” Gideon said. “I am sure of it. But not for a time.”
“The kindoro could get away while we wait.”
Gideon nodded. “So we cannot wait then,” he said. “Find out what she knows.”
Musa Kun nearly ran out of the mahema, murderous intent present in his long hurried stride.
§
Gideon pulled his microweb receiver from his pocket and carefully dialled Musa Kun garrisoned twenty kilometres away in the Kibira forest, well outside the range of Bujumbura’s rampart. Musa Kun had sixty Knights with him and the only two stealth vifaru tanks that the Legion possessed. In a tight situation, the vifaru might be able to pass the rampart undetected. But the knights would need to sneak themselves through in small groups. It would take days for them to assemble. This was the reason he had approached the city alone. On his own, he would be able to fool the kindoro machines easily. Bringing the zumbi with him had been Musa Kun’s idea, and it had proven to be a good one. It wore a green cloak, its face hidden in a large hood. On its back, it carried their supplies, weapons, and the heavy microweb node. It walked silently, ate little, and did as it was told.
“Are you close?” Musa Kun asked.
“Two hours, maybe three,” Gideon replied.
“Excellent. All is going to plan. Yusufa is ready to meet you outside the Interior Ministry building.”
Gideon looked to the horizon. He could already make out the hazy black tower, sixty floors high, rising from the cityscape like a premonition.
“He is certain to be waiting for me?” Gideon asked.
“Yes. Yusufa’s reliable. He’ll bring enough men to force into the building. They will have to search for the kindoro floor by floor.”
Gideon snapped off the receiver and put it in his pocket. He clicked his fingers twice. The zumbi rose to its feet and began to pack up.
§
The Office of the Mayor of Bujumbura was on the fifty–third floor of the Interior Ministry building. Gideon stood at the full–length window, taking in the view of the city. In the final years before The Emergency, there had been a furious spate of building work. With the profits from the burgeoning rare earth fields, there had been an attempt to demolish the city and rebuild it. The work had only half started when The Emergency began. So everywhere, there were half–broken buildings interspersed with skeletal skyscrapers and huge rusting cranes. A series of collapsed tunnels ran through the centre of the city, a botched attempt at an underground metro system. The collapsed tunnels radiated outwards towards the putrid Lake Tanganyika. From where Gideon stood, they looked like the decaying vertebrae of some ancient beast of red ear
th, steel, and stone.
Behind him, still sat at his desk, was Ndumana, the Mayor of the city. Yusufa’s men had taken the building lobby with very little difficulty, enabling Gideon to use the lift. He had left the zumbi outside in the Mayor’s reception. There had been a receptionist there and a small number of city officials. At the sight of the zumbi, they had all fled, screaming, down the stairs.
“This is needless,” Ndumana said. “You’ll start a panic in the streets.”
Gideon didn’t turn round. He kept looking down, into the streets of Bujumbura. The streets were flooded with people, hundreds of thousands of them. There was very little that frightened Gideon. He did not fear what men could do, for his power was greater still. He did not fear death, for even in death he would live. But he did fear the great unceasing crowd. As the rare earth fields had spread, the great host had flooded into the city. They had come either to find work or to escape the casual sadism of the miners. Now, here they were, spread across every surface of the city. Shanties had grown even inside the abandoned metro tunnels, filling them with white plastic tents. The sight made him weary; man was not meant to live this way.
There was a muffled burst of gunfire from a lower floor of the building. Whilst he stood there, the mêlée showed no sign of stopping. Yusufa’s men were searching the building, looking for the hostage, kindoro. It was not proving easy. There was security scattered throughout the building. The fight was floor–to–floor, man–to–man.
